Writers 
I learned early
that silence is safer than confession
that a man can carry an ocean in his chest
and still answer, “I’m fine.”
So I became good at it.
Good at looking away
when someone gets too close.
Good at turning tenderness into sarcasm,
turning longing into poetry,
turning I miss you
into a sentence no one can decode.
I have loved people
without ever giving them the evidence.
Held their names behind my teeth,
watched them leave,
then pretended the door closing
was nothing but the sound of evening.
They ask what I feel.
I give them philosophy.
They ask if I care.
I give them silence.
They ask why I disappear
when things become real.
I don't know how to explain
that sometimes being understood
feels more frightening
than being alone.
So I write.
I put everything I cannot say
into the hands of imaginary women,
into midnight verses,
into the spaces between words.
And perhaps that is my curse
I can describe the anatomy of heartbreak
better than I can admit
when my own heart is bleeding.
I will write you a thousand poems
before I say three honest words.
And if you ever ask me
whether I loved you,
I'll probably look away,
smile like nothing happened,
and let you believe
the poem was never about you.
